


Unmade and Remade

by AngelicGrace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, FBI Agent Bucky Barnes, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, SHIELD, Vigilante Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelicGrace/pseuds/AngelicGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve loses his best friend to the war, specifically to a terrorist organization known as HYDRA. He plunges himself into plotting revenge, not knowing that Bucky isn't as dead as he believes. After years apart, they are brought together again. Murders of suspected HYDRA members are happening all over the city, and the FBI has named the group responsible "The Avengers." Bucky is working the case for the FBI, and little does he know that his very own Steve is responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If the summary is unclear, this is an AU fic. HYDRA is simply a terrorist organization, and the super-soldier serum does not exist. However, in Steve and Bucky's years apart, Steve still manages to bulk up ;)

_Dear Stevie,_

_You know I’m shit at writing letters, so I’m just going to make a list of all the things I want to say. (I’m not planning to send this to you anyway)_

  1. _It’s terrible out here. The nights are cold, and the days are filled with blood and screams and desert heat. Some days I can’t even remember why the hell I enlisted. Then I have the nightmares, about Mom and Dad lying on the floor with bullets in their brains. I remember screaming when I found them on the blood-soaked carpet in their bedroom, with a red skull painted in blood on the wall above them. I dream of them, and I’m ready to do whatever it takes to make those fuckers pay for what they did to my family. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it, that my worst memory is what gets me out of bed in the morning? Well, it’s not just them that keep me going. It’s you. I lost Mom and Dad, but Steve, I couldn’t lose you too._
  2. _I miss you so damn much. It kills me that I don’t know what you’re doing, that I don’t have your back when you’re being a little punk and getting beat up in some alleyway. If you get yourself killed while I’m out here I will march my way down to hell (because I know that’s where you’ll be, don’t you deny it) and kill you again myself. I mean it, Steve (not that you’re going to read this)._
  3. _HYDRA is on the move. They’ve killed so many people, and Mom and Dad were only a small part of a huge fucking list. I’m going to kill every last one of them. All of the HYDRA agents we’ve caught have threatened us with some bullshit about how “if one head is cut off, two more shall take its place,” but I don’t give a damn. I’m going to burn those bastards to the ground, and then I’ll come home to you, Stevie. I promise (‘til the end of the line, right?)._
  4. _I’m in love with you. I’m not one for big declarations, but you’re everything I have (I’m never going to tell you, not in real life). You’re my best friend. You’re the guy I fight for, fight with, and the one thing that gives me hope in this shitty world. I know that all you ever wanted to do was enlist with me, and that you hated your body even more when they didn’t let you, but I can’t say I’m not glad you aren’t here in the field. It’s not because you couldn’t hold your own (because I’m sure you could). It’s just that you’re such a good person, Stevie. I see that goodness every time you step in front of a bigger guy to protect someone else. I see it when you give your food to a starving kid on the street. You’ve seen some bad shit in this world, and you’re better for it. But I think that being out here would ruin you. You believe the best in people, and I haven’t seen the best of anyone (including myself) in a long time. War does that to you. It wears you down, taking away your goodness, your empathy, until there’s nothing left but a thirst for blood. But that couldn’t happen to you, Steve, because all you are is good. The war would hollow you out until you were completely empty, and I’d rather die out here than see that happen to you._



_(How do you end letters? I really am hopeless at this kind of thing, Stevie. That’s why I need you)_

_Just remember, I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal (that’s a promise)._

_-Bucky_

 

Bucky read through the letter by the light of the fire. He folded it neatly before sliding it into an envelope addressed to Steve. He threw it on top of his ever-growing stack of letters that he planned to send to his friend, but hadn’t got a chance to yet. This new letter, however, was one that Steve would never see.

And so the letters waited expectantly in the corner of the room, reminding Bucky of promises he didn’t like to think about, reminding him of his skinny best friend that he would like nothing better than to kiss and wrap up in his arms. The letters waited until the day that Bucky went into battle and didn’t come back. 

 ...

HYDRA made his life a living hell. He wanted to die. There was always a line of people waiting by his prone form. It was a game to them, who could make Bucky scream the loudest or cry the most. They were sadists, all of them, and Bucky had figured out most of their names by now.

Zola was bad enough, injecting chemicals into Bucky’s veins with a clinical interest, watching him writhe in pain. But ultimately, Zola would be done in less than an hour, scurrying away to his laboratory, probably to enter data about the pitch of Bucky’s screams and the number of tears in his eyes, all the while muttering in his quavering voice, “Interesting, very interesting.”

Schmidt would always watch, never participating, but the satisfied smiles that unfurled on his face as he watched his lieutenant’s knives take Bucky apart were nearly as chilling as the blades themselves. But Rumlow was the worst of them all. His fine razors cut into Bucky’s thrashing form with delicate precision, all while whispering awful things in Bucky’s ear, about how he screamed so prettily and how he must have gotten that from his mother.

Rumlow had been the one who killed Bucky’s parents, and Bucky was ready, so ready, to make the bastard pay. Bucky had a policy around his torturers: keep quiet, but Rumlow was his own special exception. As the other man carved patterns into his flesh, Bucky’s voice would turn into a venomous hiss, swearing at and insulting the man who had torn his family apart, until the pain became too much to bear and everything went black.

... 

Bucky didn’t remember much about his rescue. All that mattered was that he was away from HYDRA and Rumlow. He remembered hands that, for once, didn’t mangle his flesh, and a soft voice murmuring comforting words in his ear. He remembered thinking of Steve, and how Bucky had left his best friend alone for so long. He had lost a whole year to HYDRA’s torture, if he counted his rehabilitation (which he did). Every minute was another moment in which Steve could have done something reckless, and he didn’t even have Bucky to pull him out of his messes.

He thought of Steve throughout his reintegration into life that _wasn’t_ sadistic HYDRA torture, and unsurprisingly, he found therapy difficult. For months, he flinched at every movement, even going as far to pin one of his therapists against the wall (multiple times). But Jemma Simmons was kind and patient, although Bucky knew that he didn’t deserve shit.

“Not everyone’s out to get you. You’re safe now,” was Jemma’s constant refrain. Her British accent was crisp, yet her voice carried a gentleness that could only come from shared experience.

“You have to focus on a goal, James. You must _want_ to get better,” she told him. Bucky tried very hard not to think of Steve, probably lying beaten to a pulp in some alley in Brooklyn. _You have to make it back, Bucky, for Stevie’s sake._ He thought of his best friend’s arms around him, all joints and bones, pinching Bucky’s sides. Bucky thought of Steve, and he didn’t feel afraid for once, because Steve was home. He’d never hurt Bucky. It would never even cross his mind.

And maybe Jemma saw Bucky’s thoughts flashing through his eyes, because her smile became a little more genuine, and hope for him, for _Bucky_ , softened her features.

“I know you’ve got your goal, your mission. So now you just have to figure out how hard you’ll fight to achieve it.” She patted his arm. “Here’s my advice. Fight like hell.” When those words left her lips, Bucky knew with a bone-deep certainty that he was going to get the hell out of here, and get back to Brooklyn, back to Steve.

... 

Brooklyn was exactly as he remembered it, right down to the rumble of buses rolling down the roads and the scent of car exhaust assaulting his nose. But Bucky felt a chill of foreboding in his bones. Maybe it was HYDRA, or maybe it was just his fucked up head, but he had a feeling that he wouldn’t get his happy ending. He hesitated before walking into his old apartment building. Maybe coming home wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. He glanced around warily, and the familiar face of his landlady peered back at him from behind dusty glasses. Bucky tensed up, finding himself wrapped in her warm arms.

“James?” She looked up at him, beaming.

Bucky gave her a weak smile, trying not to hyperventilate at her touch. _Focus on the smells_.

When Bucky was in rehabilitation, Jemma had soon realized that smells never triggered memories of HYDRA. The base had smelled like nothing at all, so if Bucky focused on the smells in any given setting, he could fight off his flashbacks and panic attacks slightly better.

His landlady smelled like cinnamon and roses (nothing like HYDRA), and Bucky felt himself relaxing into her arms.

“I was worried sick! We all were. We prayed for you,” she said.

Bucky felt tears pricking his eyes, and he squeezed her tightly. “It’s okay,” he breathed, speaking to himself just as much as to her. “I’m home. How’s Steve?”

With those words, her smile melted off her face. “Oh, honey. Steve’s gone,”

“Gone? What do you mean, _gone_?” Bucky instinctively switched to a defensive tone, scouring the room for traces of Steve. Did he leave Brooklyn? Or was he _dead_? No, he couldn’t be. Not Steve.

Mrs. Carter placed a comforting arm on his shoulder and ushered him into a chair. “He left Brooklyn, sweetheart. My Peggy went with him. Too many ghosts in this place. He was really broken up, you know. ” She looked at him significantly as Bucky’s shoulders slumped. “You _were_ assumed dead for a year.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky tried to smile, but wasn’t sure if he succeeded. Steve had been his goal, his reason to get home. Without Steve, who the hell was Bucky anymore?

“He never gave up hope, you know. He left you this, just in case you came home.” She pulled an envelope out of her desk drawer and handed it to him. Bucky weighed the letter in his hand before offering her a forced grin. “You said Peggy went with him?”

She looked at him sympathetically and nodded. “Haven’t heard from her since,” She sighed. “She always was independent.”

Bucky grinned, remembering Peggy, with her signature red lipstick and take-no-shit attitude. She’d been the one person in the apartment that every single man was terrified of (and for good reason), but she’d always had a smile to spare for skinny little Steve, and that made her good in Bucky’s book.

Mrs. Carter gave him a small smile and another warm hug. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, James. You don’t have Steve to keep you out of trouble anymore,” She murmured in his ear.

Bucky felt a pang in his chest, but he forced a laugh at her words. “You sure we’re thinking of the same Steve? The way I remember it, I was the one keeping him out of trouble.”

She pulled back, squeezing his arm. “I hope you find him, dear. A bond like the one you two have is pretty damn rare.”

Bucky’s cheeks filled with warmth and his throat tightened. He turned away before choking out, “I sure hope so.” He swiped his hand over his eyes, mumbled a quick goodbye, and ran from his old home, back to his hotel. He was surprised no one stopped him as he barreled up the stairs like a madman, his hair flying in every direction. He crumpled onto the hotel bed, taking calming breaths as he detached the envelope, hands shaking. A single sheet of paper covered in Steve’s handwriting fluttered to the floor. Bucky bent to pick it up, trying desperately not to panic. He closed his eyes for a second, and then began to read.

_Dear Bucky,_

_If you’re reading this, then thank God you’re alive. You’ve got no idea what it was like, Buck. I get this letter saying that you went missing and were presumed killed in action, and the only thing I could think was, “You selfless bastard.” You and your goddamn hero complex. I didn’t think about all the people you were saving out there. All I could think was that you never should have left, not without me. What’s the point of promising to be with you ‘til the end of the line if I can’t even follow you there?_

_Sorry I left. I know that you probably wanted to come home to a friendly face, not an empty apartment and a letter full of excuses. Jesus, you deserve better, but I needed to get out. Peggy convinced me of that. I was in a bad place, Buck. I got depressed as hell and got into a spectacular amount of bar fights (you can thank Peggy for pulling me out of them)._

_Honestly, Brooklyn became stifling. Every place or thing I could somehow associate with you, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. Peggy said that I was just going to live my life lost in the past, and I was ready to do it because I’m not strong enough to let you go. The only way she got me out was by telling me that this isn’t what you’d have wanted for me. I knew that, deep down, that if you’d been here during that time, watching me start fights with random assholes and shutting myself away, you’d have been furious. I could see you yelling at me to get off my ass and go live life the way you’d never get to, and that was the whole problem. I could see you in everything I did, and I’m not saying that’s going to go away overnight by leaving, but it’s a start, right?_

_The word is that it’s HYDRA who took you. Hell, is this how you felt after your mom and dad? Like you were ready to burn every one of them to the ground, even though you knew that it’s not going to bring them back? Because I’m feeling my blood boil and craving something that I can’t put my finger on (Revenge? War? You?)._

_I got your letters (yeah, even the one you didn’t mean to send). I love you too, Buck, and I thought you knew that. So I don’t get why you never would have told me if I hadn’t gotten your letter. But I have to say; it hurt like a bitch to find that out after I knew that you weren’t coming back._

_I’m not sure where I’m going yet (Peggy’s figuring all that stuff out), but if, (sorry,_ when) _you find me, I’ll welcome you with open arms (that’s a given). Home has always been wherever you are, and I’ve been trying to figure out life without that. God, we were dealt a shitty hand at life, weren’t we? We deserve a second chance, and I promise we’ll get it, in this life, or the next (I know you don’t believe in that sort of thing, but I’ve got enough faith for the both of us). But you’d better come home to me, Bucky, because I’m not ready to give up the hope that the end of the line hasn’t already passed us by. I miss you, jerk._

_Love,_

_Steve_

Bucky began hyperventilating. How was he going to find Steve now? His gaze landed on his cell phone, and he nearly smacked himself upside the head. Bucky dialed Steve’s number automatically and raised the phone to his ear.

“The number you have attempted to reach is no longer in service.” A robotic female voice reached Bucky’s ears, and he hung up, swearing under his breath. He pulled out his laptop, typing in _Steve Rogers_ into the search engine. He gave up with a huff after he was met with the Wikipedia page of some Australian rugby player. _Looks like the end of the line went by a long time ago,_ Bucky thought wryly, with no small trace of bitterness. If he was going to find Steve, it wasn’t going to be in the near future, that’s for sure. Bucky rolled off the bed and began to pack his few belongings. He was going to have to move on and make something of his life, and Bucky Barnes had never been one to do anything halfway.

 ... 

The years rolled by. Steve had been right about Brooklyn. Every time he strolled through an alley, he’d remember a bruised and bloodied Steve standing in front of some asshole who kept punching him, saying, “I can do this all day.” Bucky couldn’t walk by a coffee shop without remembering the day he’d spent, nearly ten years ago, convincing Steve to try coffee. Steve’s eyes had gone wide in wonder, and he’d spent days after ranting and writing poetry about the beauty of caffeine (but not Starbucks, never Starbucks). There was the stretch of sidewalk outside their old apartment where he’d last seen Steve, when Bucky had warned his friend not to do anything stupid, and Steve had shot back a cheeky grin, retorting, “How could I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

It was like everything in Brooklyn suddenly had Steve Rogers’s signature scrawled across it. Bucky couldn’t escape it, so he moved to Washington DC. He didn’t let anyone call him Bucky anymore. He was James Barnes, and everything became just a little bit easier. He joined the FBI to satisfy his “goddamn hero complex” (as Steve would say), and started helping other people whose lives were even more fucked-up than his own.

He began going to VA meetings regularly, finding solace and a sense of community with the other veterans. Sam Wilson had particularly understood his struggles, and he helped Bucky start to work through his aversion to touch and his nightmares.

“They’re not going to go away, so I’m not going to bullshit you, man. But you just have to start making that distinction between then and now, you know?” Sam squeezed his shoulder gently, and Bucky didn’t flinch. He counted that as a win.

Sam turned away to speak with someone else, and Bucky caught his arm. “Have you ever—” Bucky stuttered, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Have you ever lost someone?”

Sam’s encouraging smile turned sad, and his face took on a faraway look. “Yeah. My partner, Riley.”

“How do you stand it?” Bucky whispered, because it _hurt_. Steve was somewhere far away (or he could be dead, but he couldn’t think about that), and Bucky’s heart broke every time he turned around to say something to his friend who wasn’t there.

“I don’t.” Sam’s smile was back, but it was bitter. “All that stuff they tell you about how time heals all wounds, it’s bullshit, all of it. I’m never going to be 100% fine, but my goal is just ‘okay.’” Sam’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he offered Bucky an apologetic grin, any trace of resentment vanishing from his open expression. “What is it, Steve? You know I’m working,” He paused, listening, and Bucky tried to adjust to the fact that the guy had just said _Steve_. “Shit, really? I’ll be there in an hour, tops. I gotta finish up here first. Yeah, yeah. Bye.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned back to Bucky like there had been no interruption. That was the thing about Sam. He was so genuine that Bucky couldn’t keep up the cocky façade everyone else saw. “So you lost someone?” His voice was gentle again.

“It wasn’t in the war. His name was Steve.” Bucky only ever used the past tense when talking about Steve. It wasn’t like he was going to see him again. “I,” His voice caught in his throat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sam connected the dots, and his face became apologetic. “Shit, man. I’m sorry.” He tentatively pulled Bucky into a hug, acting like he was trying not to spook a wild animal (which, to be fair, was an accurate description of Bucky’s mental state). Bucky tensed, then relaxed, taking in the scent of Sam’s aftershave.

Bucky decided that whoever it was who said that talking helps with recovering was a fucking liar. Mentioning Steve was a bad idea. He made a mental note not to do it again, because that was the Bucky Barnes way. He shoved it all down (the self-loathing, fear, Steve), and tried to forget, all with a cocky smile on his face. For the most part, it worked, except for the nightmares. He didn't talk at the VA meetings. He just listened to Sam’s words, and the stories of the other veterans. Some had been tortured like him, and others had seen friends die. They’d all lost things to the war, friends, family, themselves, but in the end, they were all just broken people trying desperately to put themselves back together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism, comments, or kudos would be much appreciated. Please let me know how this is, because I really do want to improve my writing, and I'd like to know if this is complete shit :) thanks for taking the time to read this!


	2. Chapter 2

Steve woke with a start as someone kicked him hard in the head. Natasha was curled up on the couch next to him, staring intently at the TV, giving no sign of movement. Steve glared at her for a moment before sleepily turning his attention to the television as well.

A blonde reporter was frowning insincerely. “The body count has been rising,” she continued. “For the past couple weeks, the police has been working on finding a connection between these brutal murders, and they finally seemed to have found their link.”

Steve sat bolt upright, all remaining tiredness evaporating instantly. The reporter finally cracked a lipstick-smeared smile. “After thorough background checks, it has been confirmed that the past six victims all had some sort of connection with the organization HYDRA. And now we’ll go to Director Fury of SHIELD and Maria Hill from the FBI for more details”

After a few dramatic bars of music, the show cut to what was clearly footage from a press conference. Fury spoke into a microphone in his signature intimidating way, scowling at the reporters’ cameras. “Now that we’ve found evidence that our killer,” He began.

“Or killers,” Hill cut in.

“Or killers,” Fury amended, rolling his one visible eye, before restarting his sentence. “Now that we’ve found evidence that our killer _or killers_ seem to only be targeting HYDRA, we can work on figuring out whether they are a hostile force. Based on the professionalism of these jobs, they clearly have access to similar resources to SHIELD, and if we can determine the real motives of these so-called ‘Avengers’, we’ll be a long way into figuring out who these sons of bitches are.”

“So basically,” Hill concluded. “You thought this was just a regular serial killer case. Well, it’s not. It’s much deeper than we originally guessed, and SHIELD and the FBI will be collaborating and putting in our full effort to bring the Avengers to justice.”

Natasha turned off the TV in disgust and jumped off the couch in typical athletic fashion. “Up and at ‘em, Steve. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

“Did Tony call?” Steve asked, pulling on his jacket.

“Yup,” she said cheerfully, popping the ‘p’. “He’s got some new intel on our next target, and he wants the team at the Tower ASAP.” The last sentence was spoken at a whisper, directly into his ear.

Steve gave her a shove. “Lighten up, Tasha. This place isn’t bugged.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Her eyes darkened. “You don’t know SHIELD like I do.” She hissed, and Steve sighed. He’d heard her lectures about caution at least a million times, but still hadn’t learned when to keep his mouth shut. Sure enough, she kept going until they’d reached the steps of the Stark Tower, at which point she had to pause for breath as Steve told JARVIS to let them in. The moment they walked in, Natasha strolled over to Peggy’s side, and they were soon in deep discussion about SHIELD security measures. Steve sighed in relief.

“I’m not done with you, Rogers,” She warned, but with a slight smile on her face that basically meant, yeah, she was done with him.

After a few minutes, Peggy left Natasha, who was now talking animatedly to Clint about something or the other. Peggy bumped her arm against Steve’s with a gentle smile. “Are you all right, Steve?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” He replied absently, but considering the fact that he’d been staring blankly at the wall for the past few minutes, Peggy didn’t look like she believed him.

“Like hell you are,” Sam appeared at his elbow. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

“It’s just,” Steve’s voice caught in his throat. “It’s Bucky’s birthday tomorrow.”

Peggy’s sympathetic smile didn’t change, but Sam slung his arm over Steve’s shoulders. He opened his mouth, probably to offer words of comfort, when Tony Stark made his appearance, grinning madly.

“Then I’ve got the best birthday present he could’ve asked for.” Tony clapped Steve on the back. “JARVIS, give me info on the target,”

“I’m not sure what you think I’ve been doing for the past few hours, sir.” The AI replied dryly, bringing up the profile of one Brock Rumlow.

The room lapsed into silence as the team scanned the file. Natasha was the first to finish, calling “Give me a visual, JARVIS,” a savage expression darting across her face.

The photo of a very familiar man flashed up on the screen. Steve disregarded the rest of the file once he’d seen the names _George and Winifred Barnes_ on Rumlow’s list of victims. He turned to Natasha. “Isn’t that—?”

“Our asshole neighbor?” Natasha finished.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Steve growled. Natasha nodded in agreement.

“That’s the idea, Stevie Wonder,” Tony cut in unhelpfully with a self-satisfied smile. “I’ve been running facial recognition and hacking government files for weeks trying to find this guy,” He sobered up. “Thought you might need somewhere to put all that rage,”

“Thank you, Tony. Really.” Steve said sincerely. “But if you call me Stevie Wonder again, I might have to punch you.”

Tony laughed, because that was their friendship (if you could call it that), all fake antagonism and lighthearted teasing, never getting too deep with their conversations because neither of them wanted to admit how broken they were. “Come on then, Captain,” he grinned. “Let’s take this bastard down.”

Steve smiled, lighter than he’d felt in weeks, as Tony pulled up the information they needed. Alibis, equipment, everything was going to need to be planned down to the minute detail. The Avengers couldn’t afford to make mistakes, not now.

 ...

Natasha and Steve were leading the mission, mainly because they’d both close to Bucky, and would focus all of their energy on bringing his parents’ killer to justice. Steve remembered when he and Natasha figured out that they were both mourning the same man. They’d been rooming together for about six months when Steve came home to find Natasha sprawled, drunk and angry, on the couch.

He collapsed next to her after picking up his own bottle of beer from the kitchen. It was May 4th, a year since Bucky died, and nothing would make that okay, but alcohol would make him forget. He threw her a half-grin. “I don’t know what your plan for the night is, but I’m gonna get so drunk I can’t remember my own name.”

She pierced him with her hard gaze. “I don’t think it’s your own name you want to forget,” She said knowingly.

“Well what’s your reason?” He shot back, uncomfortable at how quickly she’d read him.

“My friend died,” She said bluntly. “One year ago to the day. Fucking idiot.” She muttered under her breath.

“Same here,” Steve offered with a humorless chuckle. “He was my best friend. The jerk went and enlisted, and then I get a letter back saying he’s not coming home.” He paused for a moment before venturing, “You want to talk about it?”

Natasha’s demeanor softened at his confession. She stared at the wall and took a swig from her bottle. “His name was James. He wanted us to call him Bucky, though. I mean, what kind of name is Bucky?” Steve inhaled harshly, but Natasha didn’t seem to notice, lost in drunken nostalgia. “We were in Special Forces together and we had one of those antagonistic friendships, you know, like you and Tony?” _Or like me and Bucky_ , Steve added silently, thinking of their screaming fights and playful mockery. “I always used to tease him about his name, and he’d get back at me by calling me a chickenshit for not making a move on Clint.” Natasha grinned crookedly, eyes still boring holes in the wall.

Steve had the presence of mind to point out, “You still haven’t made a move on Clint,”

She groaned. “Shut up. Anyway, James couldn’t really lecture me because he was head over heels for his best friend and wasn’t ever planning on telling him. Poor guy, he was always writing him letters that he couldn’t send.”

At Steve’s questioning glance, she added, “We didn’t have access to post offices out there. He just had this pile of letters under his pillow because he had nowhere else to keep them.” She wiped her eyes discreetly. Steve pretended not to notice. “Me and James, we were the best Special Forces had. We were always off on solo missions, and one day I came back to base and James wasn’t there. I knew something was wrong because he was supposed to back the day before me. I asked our commanding officer,” she gasped, “and he said that James just disappeared on the field. Presumed killed in action.” Bitterness laced her voice. “He was the best of us, and no one gave a damn that he was gone. I made sure those letters he used to write got sent to his friend. Poor kid, it was the least I could do.”

“I guess I should thank you, then.” Steve croaked, blinking away tears.

Natasha looked at him for the first time, confused.

He smiled mirthlessly. “If you hadn’t sent those letters, I would never have known he was in love with me,” he choked out, and the dam broke. He sobbed in Natasha’s arms the way he would only let himself cry around Bucky. She swore under her breath, and then squeezed him tentatively. “Come on, let’s get some booze in you.” She murmured, and that was exactly what he needed. They drank for hours, swapping Bucky stories, because although they’d originally wanted to forget, reliving those painful memories was a little easier with alcohol in their blood and someone to share it with.

... 

“Hawkeye, you in position?” Steve whispered to Clint through the comms.

“I’m in position. Get that window open and the guy’s going to drop like a rock. Make sure you’re ready to catch him, Captain.” Came the reply.

The plan was simple, and they’d planned for nearly every possible situation. Natasha was in charge of getting the windows open, and she had easily scaled the first two floors of their familiar apartment building, leaving Steve on the ground waiting impatiently for a report. His earpiece crackled to life. “Lights are off, but he’ll wake up fast. Should I break it, Cap?” Natasha asked, referring to the window.

“Depends on whether Tony’s turned off the alarm system,” Steve replied. “Stark, what’s your status?”

“That was the easiest hack job I’ve done since high school.” Tony answered, his voice laced with condescension. A muted slap carried through the comms, and Tony reported, “Pepper wants me to apologize for being an asshole while you guys are risking your lives.” He gave no sign of apologizing.

Steve ignored him, used to Tony’s sarcastic commentary. “Go ahead, Black Widow.” Natasha made a satisfied sound when he used her codename. They’d all chosen their own codenames, and everyone agreed with Natasha’s. She was small but deadly, and she always tended to be overlooked, a trait she used to her advantage.

Steve squinted up at the building, where he could see the vague shape of Natasha sticking a Stark-made glass breaker (patent pending) against the window. The glass splintered silently, and Steve watched her jump into the apartment with purposefully loud steps. Through the comms, he heard a muffled “What the fuck?” before the figure of a man came into view. He stuck his head out the window, and Clint immediately fired off a tranquilizer dart. The man toppled over the ledge into Steve’s arms. “Got him.” Steve reported. “You coming, Widow?”

Natasha jumped easily out the window, landing gracefully on her feet with a mocking bow in Steve’s direction. Everything was going as planned, Steve thought, satisfied, as they headed toward the Stark Tower.

 ...

Most of the Avengers’ kills were simple, painless, just a bullet through the back of the head, but there were exceptions. Like when they found the man who’d killed Natasha’s cousin. Jasper Sitwell’s murder had been the first one to be noticed by the media, and it had drawn notice by the sheer brutality of it. Natasha was nothing if not creative. Half the bones in Sitwell’s body had been expertly shattered, and his eyelids had been cut off completely. Even Steve got sick to his stomach when he thought of the mutilations on Sitwell’s corpse, but Natasha had reveled in it. In fact, she’d been insufferably cheerful for weeks afterward. Now Steve understood why.

There was something satisfying about the chase, the kill, and Steve felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought of hurting Rumlow the way he’d hurt and killed George and Freddie Barnes.

Rumlow grinned when Steve strolled into the room. His body was covered in bruises in the most painful spots (courtesy of Natasha), and Steve leaned against the wall, studying him.

“Here to have a little fun, neighbor? I gotta say, your girlfriend’s a firecracker,” He leered. “How’d you manage to train that one?”

Steve punched him in response. Rumlow’s nose began to bleed freely. Steve drew out the small pocketknife from his belt, glancing quickly at his reflection in the polished blade. His eyes were hard, his face set in marble. The knife had been a gift from Bucky, and Bucky had had one of his own as well. It seemed fitting to Steve. He’d never believed that bullshit about how “everything happens for a reason” (because then why the hell was Bucky dead?), but he felt that there was a poetic irony in killing Rumlow with this blade.

(He would have found it even more ironic had he known of the torture Bucky suffered under Rumlow’s hand. He would have been furious, but he didn’t know.)

A thin smile came to Steve’s lips. His voice rasped in his throat. “Don’t worry, I’m planning on taking my time with you.” Steve twirled the blade between his fingers. His grin became manic. “Let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts on this fic so far! Thank you for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky walked into the office, whistling. He stopped when he reached his desk. His papers had been swept aside, and enormous cake, adorned with frosted spiders, had been placed on it.

“Peter, you little shit.” God, he hated spiders.

The intern grinned. “What’s with the face, Barnes? I thought you liked the web,” he laughed. “You’re on your computer too fucking much, anyway.” Bucky shook his head.

“Happy birthday James!” Sharon smiled at him from the corner of the room, propping her feet up on her desk.

Bucky smirked. “So what did you get me, Sharon? Did you forget?” She started to shake her head, grinning, before he continued. “Don’t worry, you can make it up to me. Dinner tonight?”

“In your dreams, Barnes.” She turned away, snorting.

“She’s way out of your league, man.” Peter popped up at his elbow.

“Shut it, Parker.”

“Oh, and there was another murder last night. Hill wants to see you in her office.” Just another day at the FBI.

“Why didn’t you lead with that, dumbass?”

Bucky hurried towards her office. Maria Hill was a force to be reckoned with, and he’d rather not get killed on his birthday, thank you very much. “Hey Maria,” he grinned, hands in his pockets.

“Don’t ‘hey Maria’ me. You were supposed to be here hours ago.” She wore a slim black pantsuit and red lipstick, looking properly furious.

“It’s my birthday,” he tried. “Can’t you cut a guy some slack?”

“Nice try, Barnes. People are getting murdered all over the goddamn city by these so called Avengers, and you want to stroll around DC and throw yourself a birthday party?”

Bucky made a face. She had a point.

Her tone became even more clipped as she handed him a file, her movements efficient. “The latest victim’s name was Brock Rumlow.” Bucky stiffened at the name. Hill continued. “His body was found in his apartment. Cuts all over his body, probably made by some sort of penknife, and there were initials cut into his ribs.” He leafed through the file, quickly, noting the initials that had been carved in the body. The letters _JBB_ were on his chest, _WB_ on one shoulder, and _GB_ on the other. Hill continued. “I’d like you to take Coulson and check out the crime scene. Talk to his neighbors, get a clear picture of the people who live around him and what happened that night.” She finally seemed to notice the effect her words had on Bucky. He was tensed, twisting his fingers together, compulsively cracking his knuckles before bringing his fingers to his mouth. He chewed on his nails. “You all right there, Barnes?”

_No._ Pain. Blood. Screams. Laughter. So much laughter. “I’m fine.” Bucky gave her a shaky grin and strolled out of her office, file in hand. “Phil,” he called. “We’ve got work to do.”

 ...

Bucky surveyed the crime scene, taking in the blood and disarray of the apartment and storming out immediately.

“James? You okay?”

“I’m fine, Phil. Let’s talk to the neighbors.”

He fumbled for his badge while simultaneously ringing the doorbell. God, he was a mess.

The door opened slightly, bound by a chain. A woman’s voice drifted through the crack. “How can I help you fellas?”

“I’m Agent Coulson, this is Agent Barnes. FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The door opened, and the two men were suddenly looking a beautiful redhead with a vaguely threatening expression.

“Nat?” Bucky spluttered.

She acted quickly, kicking Coulson out of the way and putting Bucky in a headlock.

“You were dead, you fucking asshole.” She hissed in his ear. “I mourned you.”

“I know.” The words were insignificant, after everything they’d gone through together, after shared memories coated in sweat, blood, and mud. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, idiot.” She released him, smiling. She stepped into the apartment quickly, yelling, “Rise and shine! The FBI needs to ask us some very serious questions,” She turned to Bucky, eyes sparkling.

“So am I finally going to get to meet the infamous Clint? Or are you still a chicken rooming with someone else?” Nat threw him a dirty look, answering his question.

A familiar voice floated through the room. “Nat, what the hell?” The man stopped two feet from the door. He blinked a few times. “Seriously, _what the hell_?”

Bucky froze. “Stevie?” he whispered. But it couldn’t be. His Steve was tiny and delicate, not this tall muscular man. But damn, he would know that face anywhere. He would know him blind.

Steve stumbled, walking up to him, poking him to see if he was real. “I thought you were dead.” His voice cracked.

Bucky looked up at him, grinning. “I thought you were smaller.” He patted Steve’s bicep. “I mean, look at you!”

Steve made a choked sound, enveloping Bucky in a hug. “We missed you, Buck.”

“Missed ya too, Stevie.” Bucky mumbled into his shoulder.

Agent Coulson finally stood up from his confrontation with Nat, brushing off his suit. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I’ve got a job to do, and so do you, Barnes.”

Nat shushed him. “Can’t you see they’re having a moment?” She hissed at him, eyes flashing. Coulson looked vaguely alarmed. He continued, “I’m from the FB— ”

“Shut the hell up, Phil.” Bucky muttered, still hugging Steve.

Coulson rolled his eyes. “Do any of you care that there is a dead body next door?”

“There’s a dead body next door?” Nat and Steve turned in perfect unison.

“What did you think we were here for?” Phil muttered.

“I was hoping you were selling Girl Scout Cookies, and I have to say, I’m disappointed.” Steve shot back, grinning.

“Come on, Steve. I’m a better surprise than a fucking Girl Scout Cookie.” Bucky punched him in the arm.

Natasha scoffed. “Please. Have you _tasted_ Thin Mints?”

Bucky admitted defeat. “Your point is valid.”

“Reminder: _dead body_.” Phil was getting impatient.

“Right, sorry Phil.” Bucky slipped into FBI-mode. “So we’ll need to ask you a few questions about last night and what you know about your neighbor Brock Rumlow.”

“Me and Nat were actually out last night. We were at Tony Stark’s place, he can confirm it.”

Bucky gaped. “You’ve been to the Stark Tower?”

“Tony’s a friend.”

“Stevie, you’re _friends_ with Tony fucking Stark?”

“Moving on,” Coulson cut in. “What was your impression of Rumlow?”

“Bit of an asshole.” Steve shrugged.

Nat interrupted. “ _Lot_ of an asshole. He hit on me too much, didn’t take no for an answer. Charming when he wanted to be, but basically just a dick.” She shrugged. “Not enough of a dick for me to kill him, though, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“We’ll just need to verify your alibi and we’ll be good to go.” Coulson shuffled his papers.

Bucky grinned apologetically. “Can you think of any enemies he’d made in the neighborhood? We’re looking for motive here,”

Nat shook her head. “No one really liked him around here, but I wouldn’t say he had any enemies.”

“Could this be tied to those serial murders everyone’s talking about on TV?” Steve asked, tapping Bucky on the shoulder. “You know, the Avengers?”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s possible,” he began. He saw Steve’s jaw twitch.

“But we’ll need more intel. It’s classified.” Coulson cut him off.

“Everything’s classified, Phil.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’ll talk to you guys later, we really need to catch up.” He smiled apologetically, dragging Phil out of the door.

“Bucky,” Steve called out. “Happy birthday.”

Bucky’s grin widened. “Thanks pal.” It was already shaping up to be the best birthday he could ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all I have that's prewritten, so I'm not sure how soon my next update is going to be...please let me know what you think, whether I should continue it, what I could improve, etc. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> ok so if you can't tell from the fact that this hasn't been updated in forever, i've kind of abandoned this fic lmao sorry


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